


The Eidolon Affair

by VivArney



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:42:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivArney/pseuds/VivArney





	The Eidolon Affair

Napoleon Solo opened the car window a few inches and took a deep lungful of the icy, unpolluted North Carolina air. He let it out slowly as the drowsiness he'd felt a few moments before retreated somewhat. It was all right for some people, though, he thought, glancing over at his fair-haired partner. Illya Kuryakin sat bundled up in a heavy, brightly colored, woolen blanket and snoring slightly.

Actually, Napoleon didn't begrudge his friend the much needed rest. The two agents had literally been put through the wringer during their last assignment and Illya still had the bandages to prove it. If the little Russian wanted to sleep, Napoleon wasn't going to stop him.

Illya groaned softly and moved away from the frigid blast of January wind coming though Napoleon's open window, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

The dark haired agent reached to crank the window closed, then changed his mind. It was all he could do to stay awake as it was and he still had over a hundred miles left to drive, with as few stops as possible, if they were to reach the rendezvous on time. They had to pick up a briefcase of documents from the courier and still catch the five a.m. flight to New York. He had to drive slowly because of the steadily falling snow.

Normally, he let Illya make these long, boring drives; he hated them and the younger man seemed to enjoy them as much as Napoleon didn't. Napoleon found himself wondering, not for the first time, just how his Russian friend tolerated the interminable hours behind the wheel.

Tonight, however, Illya had begged off, flashing one of his rare smiles and a plaster encased forearm.

Napoleon reached forward and turned the radio off; they hadn't been receiving anything but static for the last ten miles or so anyway.

"I was listening to that," Illya complained groggily, sitting up.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were so fond of static."

"Oh. When did I fall asleep?" he asked, yawning.

Napoleon cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "About thirty miles ago."

"Why is it so cold?" Illya asked, tightening the blanket around him.

"It's January."

"Very funny."

"Actually, I almost dozed off a few minutes ago. It's too cozy in here."

"Speak for yourself."

"I thought you liked cold weather," Napoleon teased with a grin.

"Cold weather, yes. Cold rivers, no," Illya shot back. "I like even less being flung into one headfirst in the middle of winter with no warning."

"My, we are a surly one tonight," Napoleon chuckled. Illya was in one of his infrequent "Russian Bear" moods and Napoleon enjoyed rubbing it in as much as possible.

"Surly to bed...," Illya began.

Napoleon cringed, already regretting his earlier ribbing. Illya could - and probably would if he got started - pun all the way back to New York. Napoleon decided quickly to ignore the remark. "What are you complaining about? At least Charlie put the fire out. And she did try to tell you your coat was on fire."

"I was rather occupied at the time," Illya reminded him, shivering slightly. "Will you please close that window?"

Napoleon raised the window a few inches as he let the details of their last assignment run through his mind.

They had been sent to Jamestown, North Carolina to investigate a report that THRUSH was up to their usual mischief. The assignment had gone relatively well until everything came to a head the previous night when the two of them and a female enforcement agent, Charlene Ingersol from the Raleigh Headquarters, had burst in on their THRUSH counterparts. There had been a brief exchange of gunfire before the explosion that killed the THRUSH agents and scattered flaming debris liberally around the clearing.

Illya hadn't even realized that his jacket had caught fire until Napoleon and Charlie had hauled him, sputtering, broken arm and all, out of the freezing river. It was no wonder that, even twenty-four hours later, he still felt unusually cold.

"Napoleon, look out!!" Illya shouted suddenly as a flash of red against the snow outside caught his eye. He braced himself as Napoleon slammed on the brakes and swerved to avoid the young woman who had just appeared in the middle of the road.

"Where did she come from?" Napoleon panted as soon as he could breathe again.

"You almost missed the chance to ask her," Illya muttered, his eyes on the right side view mirror as Napoleon put the car into reverse.

The girl had moved to the wide band of pea gravel on the side of the road. Her long dark hair was a tangled mess and she'd obviously been crying - there was a desperation in her dark eyes. She wore a delicate, red, lace-covered evening gown, silky, elbow-length gloves that matched the blood red of her gown and she held a frilly hat in one hand.

"Please, can you take me to High Point?" she asked in a tear-filled voice through Napoleon's still open window.

The agents exchanged questioning glances and Illya nodded slightly, sliding closer to Napoleon's side of the car. A little detour wouldn't make them late for the rendezvous and the girl was obviously in some sort of trouble.

"Sure, hop in," Napoleon told her, gesturing to Illya's recently vacated seat.

Illya caught a brief whiff of an unusual perfume as he opened the door for the girl and she slid into the car beside him. Her skin felt like ice when his hand brushed against her elbow. He pulled the blanket from his shoulders and draped it gently around her as she closed the door.

"No," she protested. 'You...."

"I will be warm enough if Napoleon will close his window," Illya assured her, giving his partner a dirty look.

Taking the hint, Napoleon rolled the window up and smiled over at the girl. "I'm Napoleon Solo and my grouchy partner is Illya Kuryakin."

"My name is Ernestine," she said quietly. If she gave a last name, neither of the men heard it. "Please hurry," she pleaded. "I'm already very late and my parents must be worried."

"If you don't mind me asking, Ernestine, what are you doing out in the middle of nowhere so late a night?" Napoleon asked as he put the car into gear and set off for the nearby town.

Ernestine didn't answer for a long moment. "I went to a party with Jake," she explained finally. "We had an argument."

"I can't believe he'd throw you out on a night like this," Napoleon said, his eyes on the road as she gave him directions. "He didn't. I got out."

"You realize hitchhiking is very dangerous, don't you?" Illya asked.

Again, the young woman lapsed into silence for a long moment.

"Easy, Illya," Napoleon whispered. "She's been through enough."

Illya said nothing; he'd caught the flash of fire in the girl's dark eyes in the dim light from the dashboard.

"What would you have done?" she finally asked, frowning. "Why do you question me? Nothing matters now, don't you see? I'm going home!" she added. There was an excitement in her voice, an eagerness, but there was a tinge of great sadness too, as if she'd been away from home for a very long time.  
Nothing more was said until Napoleon finally pulled into the barely visible driveway at the address Ernestine had given him earlier.

"Here we are," he said cheerfully, glancing over at the passenger seat for the first time in almost twenty minutes. Illya had drifted off to sleep again and the girl.... Napoleon frowned. The girl was gone! "Illya," he muttered worriedly. "Illya, wake up."

The Russian opened his blue eyes and looked around. "What's the matter?"

"She's gone!"

"So?"

"You don't understand. She was sitting beside you a few minutes ago," Napoleon explained, reaching up to turn on the dome light.

Illya's eyes showed only a flicker of disbelief before he looked down at the now empty seat, then up at the huge, old house before them. "Perhaps she went inside, Napoleon," he suggested, not really believing it himself. If Ernestine had left the car in the normal way, he would have felt the rush of cold air when she opened the door. "Shall we?" Illya asked, nodding toward the house.

Napoleon shrugged. "Why not?" he muttered, checking his Walther in his shoulder holster. He wasn't really expecting trouble, but is was always best to be prepared. He opened the car door and stepped out onto the snow covered driveway.

Illya fished his coat out of the back seat. He shivered in the penetrating cold as he struggled to pull his cast-covered arm out of the sling and, with Napoleon's help, slide it through the coat's sleeve and back into the sling.

"You ready?"

The blond enforcement agent nodded as he quickly transferred his gun from its holster to his jacket pocket and buttoned the heavy garment up to his neck.

The house before them was old, almost ancient, but well maintained. It looked strangely ethereal in the pale moonlight.  
As they mounted the creaky wooden steps, Napoleon found himself listening for the baying of wolves. He raised his knuckles to the heavy door, then hesitated.

"Well?"

"It's pretty late," Napoleon said, looking down at the glowing dial of his watch.

The Russian shrugged and headed back toward the car.

"Oh, come on, Illya, you know you're just as curious about this as I am."

"I don't believe in spooks, spirits or specters, Napoleon," he answered, leaning against the ornately carved column and folding his arms across his chest with difficulty. "Especially pretty ones in red ball gowns."

"Yes, and you don't believe in color television, either," Napoleon shot back, rapping on the door. "But I've seen you watch it often enough."

A short time later, a light came on in the foyer and the door creaked open. "Yes?" a voice as creaky as the door's ancient hinges asked quietly.

Napoleon smiled down at the little old man. "Hello, my name is Napoleon Solo. I don't know quite how to say this, but..." he said, chuckling and scratching the nape of his neck.

"We're looking for Ernestine," Illya said bluntly, coming forward.

Quickly, Napoleon introduced his partner and sketched out the details of their recent mysterious encounter.

The old man beamed. "So, she's been up to her old tricks again, has she?" he chuckled. "Gave ya a scare, did she? Come on in, it's mighty cold out there."

The men followed him into a narrow hallway and the man closed the door behind them with a solid boom. "My name is Ernest Garfield," he told them as he led them into an impeccably furnished sitting room and gestured for them to take seats as he left to get coffee for his unexpected guests.  
Illya's keen eyes took in the carefully preserved antiques as Napoleon perched himself on the edge of the nearest sofa. The Russian gasped in surprise at the sight of the portrait framed in flecked gold hanging above the marble faced fireplace.

Hearing Illya's sudden reaction, the dark haired agent turned and, seeing the painting for the first time, echoed his partner's gasp of disbelief. "That's her!" he whispered.

"It can't be, Napoleon, look at the date," Illya insisted, pointing to the small brass plate set into the center of the bottom edge of the elaborate frame.

Ernestine Gayla Garfield  
1925

"Granddaughter maybe?"

Illya shrugged and continued to stare at the portrait. "Could be."

Garfield shuffled in at that moment, carrying a tray loaded down with coffee, cups and all the other necessary paraphernalia. "Ah, you've discovered the picture, gentleman!"

"Your wife, Mr. Garfield?" Solo asked.

The older man shook his head. "No, Mr. Solo, that is Ernestine, my twin sister."

"Then, the girl we met on the road tonight was your granddaughter?" Illya asked. "The resemblance is remarkable."

Garfield chuckled. "Heavens no. Let me try to explain," he said, pouring coffee and handing the cups to his guests. Illya and Napoleon sipped their coffee as they listened to the man's story, grateful for the warmth the hot beverage spread through them.

"Ernestine was engaged to a man named James Whistler, the son of one of the richest tobacco growers in Raleigh. They were going to be married the next Spring. They were very excited about their upcoming marriage, at least James was, Ernestine was beginning to have second thoughts. Anyway, one night, she went to a New Year's Eve party with "Jake" as she called him."

"Yes, she said they'd had an argument," Napoleon put in eagerly.

"Correct. Ernestine got out of the car on the road and started walking home. It was colder than usual that night and Jake had taken her coat away from her during the argument. She had walked for nearly a mile when she was hit by an intoxicated salesman on his way home from a local roadhouse."

Napoleon's face fell. "Oh, no!"

"Don't look so troubled, Mr. Solo, the doctors assured us that she felt nothing."

"When did this happen?" Illya asked quietly.

"In 1925, Mr. Kuryakin, just before the portrait was finished. Only the skirt was left to be painted, so my father had the painter repaint the dress from her white wedding gown to the red ball gown she was wearing that night. It seems she's been trying to return home ever since."

The U.N.C.L.E. agents exchanged skeptical glaces.

"Do you think you two are the first people this has happened to?" Garfield asked, smiling. "Ernestine has tried many times to come home during the last forty-two years, but she never quite makes it here. Please, come outside. There's something I ought to show you."Napoleon and Illya followed the old man trough the dimly lit corridors. They waited while he picked up a flashlight and led them down a flight of steep stairs to the outside door at the rear of the old mansion.

Garfield opened the back door and continued on outside. He stopped at a small, fenced graveyard and shone the light on a tall, unadorned stone. "You see?"

"There must be a mistake...," Napoleon insisted. "She spoke to us."

"Yes," Illya agreed. "She was cold. I put a blanket around her."

"Illya, look there," Napoleon said in a strangled whisper, pointing at the ground near the tombstone.

Illya frowned. Lying on the unbroken snow beside the stone, was the blanket folded neatly into a small square. There was no mistaking the bright colors and flowing pattern of the blanket Charlie Ingersol had wrapped around Illya as he and Napoleon started their long drive

Napoleon cleared his throat finally. "I'm sorry we disturbed you, Mr. Garfield," he said quietly as Illya bent to retrieve the blanket.

"No, Mr. Solo, I should apologize to you in Ernestine's behalf and thank both of you for trying to help her."

The agents shook hands with the elderly gentleman and headed slowly back around the house to their car.

"Well?" Illya asked in a soft whisper.

"Well, indeed."

"Did you believe him?" the Russian asked.

Napoleon shrugged. "I don't know, Illya."

"Mr. Waverly will want to know why we're so late."

Napoleon frowned and opened the car door. "So, we'll put the whole story in the report."

"And spend the next month bashing heads with the boys in the Psych Unit? No, thank you, Napoleon. I'm still recovering from serious injuries. I didn't see, or hear, a thing," Illya insisted. "We had car trouble." 

"But?"

Illya ignored his partner's protest and slid into the passenger seat, then slammed the door.

Solo shrugged again and joined his partner in the car. "All right, Illya, you win. We had car trouble." He slid into the driver's seat and then frowned when he received no response from his suddenly silent friend. "Illya? What's wrong?" he asked, reaching up to turn on the dome light.

The blond man raised his blue eyes from the thin piece of blood red cloth he held in his hand.

"What's that?"

Illya turned the material over in his hand and suddenly Napoleon recognized the object. It was a long, red glove they had last seen on the beautiful hitchhiker.


End file.
